no rest for the wicked
by vickydd
Summary: "Stiles's name was Thomas. Thomas Edison." Everyone's face clouds up in some sort of emotion. Scott perks up and looks at Derek. "That's why you called him Thomas." The other man nods. "So," the Asian girl asks, "he. . . Stiles doesn't remember anything?" Minho looks at his feet. "Anything he does remember is fake."
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue –** ** _grief_**

Derek paces back in forth in the loft. Braeden stands next to the table, leaning on it. She looks just as fiercely beautiful as usual, but Derek doesn't need to take a whiff of her to know that she's frustrated and angry. Documents and various other papers are spread on the table top, and she's flipping through them restlessly. Dark circles bruise under her eyes and her hair is slightly frizzy, pulled back out of her eyes in a loose ponytail. She snaps her cellphone out and begins to dial a number.

Derek slides down the nearest wall and sits on the floor, elbows on his knees. Even after being back in the loft for the miserable past six months, it still feels strange to be back. He'd been ready to leave Beacon Hills for as long as he could. The large looming windows stare down at him, small snowflakes melting and dripping down slowly. It's late December, exactly five days before Christmas, and the last time Derek had dreaded the holidays this much, it had been the year after his family died. In his head, Derek replays Scott's voice when he told him what happened, reminding him why he was here.

"Hello? . . . Yes, this is her. Do you have the information I asked for? . . . No. Don't say anything. . .I realize this. . .Thank you for your help, please alert me when you lock in on the location. Happy Holidays."

Braeden's sentences are short but polite, and Derek hadn't tried to eavesdrop on the other side of the call, so it surprises him immensely when Braeden slams her phone into the table. The entire pack, even Derek himself, had offered paying for her services. Braeden took one look at them and angrily shook her head. This was something she wanted to do, she didn't need their money. In an instant, he's standing in front of her, hands on her shoulders, his eyebrows hunched in worry.

She gives him a look Derek wishes he didn't recognize. Almost the same look she'd given him as he bled out in Mexico. The hopelessness shone sadly in her eyes. Derek knows how strong the woman in front of him is. She'd been through things that were comparable to the things he himself had had to deal with. And he's had to deal with a lot.

"He's not the first one, Derek. Over a hundred of them have been taken in the last three years."

Her voice is steady, but he sees the way her shoulders slump.

A hundred. A hundred teenagers missing, taken away from friends, families, and their lives.

As Derek begins to form a reply, the snow outside turns into loud and pouring rain. When lightning flashes a couple seconds later, they both look out the window and almost miss the sound of the alarm as thunder strikes.

Almost like the pair had done it a thousand times, Braeden grabs her gun and hides in the shadows next to the wall, Derek sliding into the shadows on the other side. When the door slides open, Derek inhales the scent of human and misery, so strong it almost makes him stumble.

It's a blonde boy. He's wearing dirty white clothing not suited to the weather, water droplets dripping from his tall and lanky frame. His brown eyes search around in panic, and the boy – he looks about seventeen – limps and trips into the room, failing to notice the two people behind him. He mumbles something.

"Braeden. . .Brae—"

The werewolf has the blonde pushed up against the wall in seconds. "Who are you? What do you want?"

The boy's lips are blue and he coughs nastily when his back hits the wall. "Derek," Braeden chastises behind him. He lets his hold on the boy loosen a little. As he breathes in, he senses the boy's pain, but there's also something else, something that Derek knows well. The boy's voice is rough, like it hasn't been used in days, but there's a certain accent to it too, almost British.

"I – I know where he is," the boy gasps. "I know where – where Stiles is."

Letting go of the boy in shock, he almost doesn't notice when the blonde slides down the wall and stops breathing.

Like always, Braeden is there; calling 911 and performing CPR.

Taking another step back, Derek lets out the breath he was holding. Underneath all his pain and misery, the boy was drowning in grief.


	2. Chapter 2

**1 –** ** _paradise_**

Paradise lasts two weeks. Two weeks of peace, if Thomas could even call it that. The last fourteen days had been night of nightmare after nightmare, either crying or screaming himself to consciousness. It seemed like the moment all the adrenaline of constantly fighting left his body, Thomas finally succumbed to what he was feeling.

He wasn't the only one though. Minho and Gally grunted and thrashed at night. Brenda woke up sobbing. Some of the others were worse for wear, but most were doing okay.

Thomas felt the guilt swallowing him whole.

"Thomas, you klunk-head! We need you by the waterfront, there's an issue." Minho's voice snaps Thomas out of his daze, and the brunette stands up from the secluded rock he had been sitting on. "Coming!"

As he emerges from the trees, Brenda immediately bounces up to him. Thomas lets her hug him and kiss his cheek, ignoring the raised eyebrows and look of worry. Her hand traces the circles under his eyes wearily. Behind her, there are people fluttering about, washing, hunting, building, cooking, laughing and just. . .living. Thomas's heart stutters. He can't even imagine what they must feel like.

Brenda follows him to where Minho, Gally, and Frypan stand.

Its sundown, the fourteenth day on paradise, and Minho alerts Thomas that someone spotted something moving on the skyline, and everything goes to literal klunk. Thomas can see it. The white blob that leaves a trail of smoky clouds in its wake.

As it comes closer and closer, Minho attempts to calm down the masses, who have slowly begun to realize something is looming upon them. Frypan goes to cook a meal at some point, but the rest of them just stand there, the same dread filling them all up, in silence. Brenda squeezes his hand from where she's standing next to him and finally breaks the silence. "What. . . what is that?"

Thomas moves closer for a better view. Although it was clearly a flying machine, it looked nothing like a Berg. In fact, it kind of looked like a plane. Brenda comes up on his right and Gally comes up on his left.

"Is that. . .is that a _plane_?" Gally asks hesitantly. Him and Thomas still have it rough getting along at points, but something about surviving all they did changes how you hate someone.

"I- I think it is," Brenda mutters, completely amazed.

"But. . ." Thomas mumbles, but doesn't finish. Planes were a thing from before the Flare. He remembers them, knows he's been on one before, but has no idea why or with who and how. The small amount of memories Thomas has received back since the Maze start to leave him more and more confused as time goes on. He ignores the way it bubbles discomfort and steps back, the plane is minutes from landing, looking bigger than ever and sounding louder and louder.

Behind them, they hear Minho yell angrily. "Thomas, Gally, and Brenda! Get your shuck asses back here and grab a weapon. I don't care if it's a bunch of unicorns driving or it's more cranks. We're gonna be shucking prepared when they get here."

Thomas smiles fondly at his friend, nods, and jogs back to where everyone has lined up, shoulder to shoulder. The four of them stand in the front, leaving little room for the plane to arrive. Suddenly, he remembers something. Planes need a landing strip. He turns around and hollers loudly, maybe a minute before the planes estimated landing time. "GET BACK! MOVE!"

They listen. They always do. Thomas refuses to think about it.

Brenda pulls him back and the plane lands, taking a few seconds to fully stop, right in front of where the four of them stand bravely, hands on their weapons.

A million _what if's_ go through his mind, and Thomas swallows nervously. Whatever it is, they can handle it. He hopes.

When the door opens, a dark haired hunk of muscle jumps out, landing smoothly and looking towards the crowds, who Thomas notices have assembled behind them, some sort of weapon in their hands. He's dressed in dark jeans, boots, a grey shirt and a simple leather jacket. He has a five o'clock shadow and green blue eyes. Thomas can't see any weapons on him, but that means nothing. His wardrobe and appearance surprise him, and he can tell he's not the only one wo feel that way.

Minho's there before the man even has time to finish looking around. With a gun pointed at the man's chest, he starts talking. "Who the shuck are you?"

The man doesn't reply, and his gaze locks with Thomas's. Something about the way the other man's eyes widen and the stare intensifies makes Thomas want to hide. The man, probably in his early or mid-twenties, is looking at Thomas like he hung the moon.

Someone else jumps out of the plane door. Minho's gun is pointed at the dark skinned woman, about the same age as the other guy, before she even looks up from her feet. She's dressed in similar attire, and is obviously just as good looking as the man beside her. There are long scars covering her neck gruesomely and Thomas wonders how she survived them. Immediately, she locks her gaze on him. Her stare makes him feel even worse than the man's does.

"Stiles."

It was barely a whisper on her lips, but almost everyone hears it, the entire population quiet as the two strangers stand in front of Minho's gun. _Stiles,_ he repeats in his head.

Somehow, Thomas knows the woman's referring to him, but he refuses to accept it. Minho starts.

"What the shucking shuck is a Stiles?" Minho looks exasperated and angry, unsure of who to point his gun at. He chooses the girl, since she's the one who spoke. Also, there's an obvious gun in a holster at her waist and she's wearing a badge of sorts around her neck. Neither are good signs. "And answer my questions, now."

As if Gally thought Minho wasn't doing a good job, he moves forward and joins them near the plane, adding his own gun to the mix. "Talk."

The strangers are still eyeing him up and down. Their gazes pause on his shoulders, his attire, his hair, and the confusion in his eyes. The man and the woman give each other a look. It's the first time they rip their eyes away from Thomas. _Stiles_. . .

The woman starts speaking. "My name is Braeden Tandy and this is Derek Hale." She pauses, looking towards Thomas for any sign of recognition. When none is rendered, and Thomas feels more confused than he did before, she continues, her voice loud and clear. "I am a United States Marshall. Whatever you think you know, it's not true. WICKED fed you lies. The world is completely safe from the Flare, and there were no disastrous sun flares ever to occur."

This causes an uproar. Everyone goes mad and starts yelling, throwing things and trying to condemn this woman, who thinks she can feed them another lie. Thomas has enough of it after a couple of seconds. He stomps up closer to where Minho and Gally are still pointing their guns in disbelief at the two strangers and holds his ground. Like earlier, he puts all his might into his words. "SHUT UP! CALM DOWN, AND SHUCKING LISTEN TO WHAT THEY HAVE TO SAY!"

Most of them are shocked into silence, and Thomas can feel the burning gazes of the strangers behind him. He hears someone else jump from the plane door. Thomas spins around and sucks in a breath. No –

It can't be possible. It can't. He feels and hears almost everyone fall quiet, except for murmurs of confusion or leftover arguers, Gally's, Minho's and Brenda's shocked gasps.

It's like Thomas's lungs decide to stop working, because he can't breathe.

"It's true."

There he is. His hair has grown back into the bald spot that was there the last time Thomas saw him. The bruises and sharp cuts there were before are gone, and Thomas looks at the side of the blonde's head.

No gaping wound. No bleeding. Like nothing even happened.

His insides constrict and Thomas breathes out one word, almost choking. He feels a worried glance from the man named Derek. He ignores it. "Newt."

Minho and Gally abandon their guns and run at the taller boy. Brenda runs up until she's right beside Thomas; still, he can't move, frozen in place.

Newt's smile when he hugs Gally and Minho makes Thomas's eyes tear up.

The world was okay again.

But. . . how? Somehow, Thomas hadn't lost this friend. Hadn't killed his friend.

Teresa. . . Chuck. . . but somehow not Newt.

When Newt's warm brown eyes make contact with his own, Thomas feels lightheaded. Suddenly, there's a body against his and arms around his back and- and Thomas is sobbing.

"Tommy."

His voice is so warm, that rich foreign accent so kind and soothing. After what seemed like so long but not long enough, Newt pulls back. Thomas stutters, not sure of what is happening. "Wha- how? Newt."

The boy looks a thousand times healthier than he ever did in the Maze. His skin is slightly pale, like he hasn't seen the sun, but he looks like he has no scars, no fears, no worries. Only happiness. Thomas recounts what the boy in front of him had said as a crank begging for death.

Thinking of it springs new tears to his eyes and he feels his heart turn cold. A wound that had been recently numbed burst back into pain.

Newt's eyes are just as teary as his own. "Tommy?"

Thomas takes a deep breath, steps back, and looks at Braeden and Derek, who are both staring with equal expressions of shock and pain. "Who are these people?" he whispers to Newt shakily. His voice sounds foreign and hoarse.

Thomas swears he sees Derek's sharp intake of breath, as if someone had stabbed him. Suddenly, he knows the answer to his own question.

"They're your friends, Tommy. You're Stiles."


	3. Chapter 3

**2 –** ** _memories_**

Since the first time Thomas can ever remember, his dreams are perfectly clear. He dreams of a boy named Stiles Stilinksi, a boy who consists of 147 pounds of skin, sarcasm, bones, and wit. A boy who goes to summer camp every summer, leaving the first week and coming back the last week, losing and regaining memories of building a maze, a sweet girl named Teresa, and numerous other friends that one by one he sent into the Box. Thomas and Stiles were the same person, Thomas could tell. But their memories never crossed paths. They had different parents, friends, goals, realities. But now, he will never regain his memories of Stiles's life. Images of different people pass in his mind's eye, some more than others. He can't connect any of their faces to names, any of their words to memories.

Although it's better than the constant stream of nightmares he's been having, Thomas shivers awake feeling depressed and confused. Brenda is lying next to him in bed, her hair falling in her eyes sweetly and her hand intertwined with his. Minho and Gally are asleep on the next bed over, and Newt is awake, flipping through a magazine in a seat between the two beds. Thomas lets go of Brenda's hand carefully and turns to face Newt.

So many people were left in Paradise, information and back up soon arriving to take them home, where these people belonged. Frypan had chosen to go back to his dad, who turned out to still be alive. Gally didn't care about his parents, he was going where the rest of them went. Minho was an orphan. Brenda had only ever known W.I.C.K.E.D. Newt's family died in a car crash the year he was sent into the maze, him and his sister being the only two to survive. But she had died with a lot of Group B.

Newt looks at him and sighs, but he starts talking anyway, as if he knows what Thomas is going to ask.

"I never died." The words leave Newt's lips the moment he makes eye contact with Thomas. They are full of regret, and, to Thomas's assumption, pain. Newt continues uncertainly.

"I don't know how, or bloody why, but the bullet didn't kill me. The next thing I know, I'm at W.I.C.K.E.D. Headquarters, being offered a choice. 'You're important, Newt,' they said. 'Die, or choose to help us. We could use your help.'"

He pauses here, takes a shuddering breath, and his eyes are wet. He's put the magazine down now and is completely facing Thomas. "I don't know if it's because they were being honest, or if it's because they knew they were losing the fight against us, but I didn't bloody care at the time. I saw a chance and I took it. I found myself in one of the prohibited areas. I found out the truth.

"I don't know how long I sat there staring at all the shucking proof. It was all a lie. We were all guinea pigs in a radiation experiment. We all died for nothing. I- I made you ki—"

The blonde's voice had cracked there, but Thomas ignores the mention of the subject of most of his nightmares. He ignores the sharp pain that blooms in his chest and looks at Newt expectantly. Newt reaches over to him and catches Thomas's wrist in his hand, rubbing soft circles on his pulse point as he continues.

"You can't handle the exposure? You have the Flare. It doesn't affect you? Immune. They had handpicked the smartest and yet the least noticeable people. Every time we went through a Flat Trans? They would knock us out and wake us up somewhere else. It was all a lie, Tommy, a bloody lie."

Both their eyes shone with tears. "Newt. . ."

Thomas had so many questions. Question after question that he stopped himself from asking, only looking into Newt's eyes sadly instead. The blonde looked like he wanted to say more but he was shaking his head, so Thomas squeezed the other boys arm gently.

"I ran as soon as I could, trying to find someone who could help." Newt's stare becomes something filled with longing, and the boys squeezes back. "You have really good friends, Tommy."

This makes Thomas want to scream. Braeden and Derek had gone to all this trouble to find him, to make sure he was alive, and Thomas couldn't even freaking remember them. "I don't even know them," he spits.

Newt ignores his tone. "But you will," he insists. "My parents died in a car crash the year I was put into the maze. Minho's an orphan. Gally doesn't want anything to do with his parents. Brenda grew up as a permanent part of WICKED, so everyone she's related to is dead. The fact that you have anyone. . . it's amazing."

Thomas doesn't reply. He retracts his arm from the blonde's grip and leans his elbows on his knees, hands coming up to support his head. He thoughtfully observes the shoes he's wearing, simple red converse. Everyone had been offered a change of clothes when they entered the plane, and none of them had refused. Thomas gazes at his friends.

Brenda, who breathes lightly behind him still asleep, is wearing something of Braeden's. It's a black tank top, a grey hoodie with a draw string, and ripped jeans. Minho is in Adidas track pants and a white wife beater. Gally is dressed similarly in grey sweatpants. Thomas himself is wearing what apparently seems to be his own clothing: a white shirt a size too big, a red string up hoodie, and sweats. At least, it's Stiles's clothing.

"Tommy?"

As he looks up, he observes what Newt is wearing. A cream colored sweater that reminds Thomas too much of what Newt wore in the Glade, and brown pants. "Yeah?"

"Thank you, Tommy. Thank you so shucking much – you have no idea what it meant to me, I was going ins-"

Thomas couldn't deal with this right now. He knew they needed to talk about it, but it was too much, too soon. "Shut up."

Newt stood up and Thomas could see the others coming awake. "You need to hear this!"

Thomas whispers his next words harshly before making an exit. "Shut up, Newt. I-I killed you. Put a gun to your head and pulled the trigger. Just, shut up."

He opens the compartment door and slams it shut, knowing Newt won't follow. The blonde knows when he needs space. The brunette tries removing the blonde's guilt stricken face from his mind but it's nearly impossible. Since they're still on the plane (a private jet no less, he wonders how rich Stiles's friends are), Thomas can't exactly go on a run, but he can't stay still any longer. He goes into the room where he knows Derek and Braeden are sitting, hearing hushed angry whispers. His stomach grumbles hungrily as he pushes the door open.

Both Derek and Braeden are frozen mid whisper, and Thomas looks at them questioningly. He still doesn't trust either of them, and it hurts that he may never trust anyone again, not completely. Braeden stands up suddenly, glaring at Derek. Thomas hasn't spoken to either of them yet, well, other than some short, strained sentences when answering questions, but no real conversations. No talk of Stiles or how when they were in the same room the both of them couldn't stop staring at him. What, was Stiles better looking than him or something?

"I was just leaving," Braeden says and stands up, walking towards the door behind Thomas. "There's still a couple of hours until we get to California, so I think I'm gonna take a nap." She rubs her hands off on her dark skinny jeans and walks past him. Thomas can see how stressed and tired she looks. Both of them look like that, but he hasn't commented yet. He wishes he knew what made them like this, wishes he _remembered_ them.

Braeden stops next to him and gives him a weak smile. She extends her hand out as if to pat him on the shoulder, but before she can he's already flinching out of the way on instinct. He winces at the look of rejection on her face, but she steels herself and says, un-phased, "It's nice to see you again, Stiles," before leaving. Thomas manages a sad and sheepish nod at her before taking an empty seat. Once again, he refuses to acknowledge how helpless he feels.

He looks at Derek. The man is incredibly handsome and rugged, like he belongs on the cover of a magazine. His green blue eyes blink at Thomas warily from underneath bushy eyebrows.

"Are you hungry?" the man asks, and because it was the last thing he expected the man would say, a chuckle escapes him. Derek looks at him bizarrely, like he didn't expect that either.

"You shucking bet," Thomas nods, forcing a smile for the other man's sake and Derek lifts a judgmental eyebrow at him. Moments later though, the man has placed a burger and fries in front of him. Thomas's mouth literally waters. He thinks about how much he will miss Frypan's cooking before he digs in.

Once he's swallowed a monstrous bite of the burger, he tries to break the tension between them. He knows Derek is staring (when isn't he), and he can feel the other man's discomfort.

"So, I don't really remember a lot," another judgmental brow lift, "okay, that's a lie, I remember close to nothing. But, my name is Stiles, I live in Beacon Hills, and I have friends rich enough to hire a US Marshall and own a private jet?"

He hopes sounding airy and careless will do the trick, but he knows he's made it worse when his voice comes out questioningly instead. Derek blinks before leaning back in his chair. A moment of silence passes that makes him think the guy might not reply, so he takes another bite of his burger.

"Your name is Stiles Stilinski, you're turning 18 in March, you live in Beacon Hills, the US Marshall is a friend and the private jet is a rental."

Thomas channels all his energy and frustration into asking questions, random and mostly unimportant, but after talking with Newt, he needs some of them answered.

"What kind of name is Stiles? I thought I was sixteen, huh." Derek's eyebrows continue to lift whenever he says something. Thomas wonders how he got someone who looks and acts as fierce as Braeden. "Not that I am not happy with my current relationship or anything, but do I have a girlfriend? Do I have a lot of friends? Um. . . Do I have a lot of family?"

Derek looks personally offended with having to answer so many questions, but Thomas can sense the other man's relief at his curiosity. "I don't know, but it's your nickname, not your real name. Yes, surprisingly so, you have a girlfriend -" Thomas's heart drops "- and you may not have the most friends, but a lot of people put in a lot of effort to find you when you went missing. You live with your dad. Your mom passed away when you were younger."

"How did she die?" Thomas asks first. His dread seems to seep into his burger, and he loses some of his appetite.

Derek looks unsure of how to answer. "Um. . .I'm not exactly the person to answer that."

Thomas nods, but the dread becomes greater. "My, um, my dad. Is he. . . is he okay?"

Believing his father went crazy and was dead for so long awakens a fear inside him. What if his real father isn't healthy either?

This, Derek doesn't hesitate in replying to. Thomas assumes then that he and his father have a good relationship. "Your dad's the sheriff, where we live.. . .Do you know what that is?"

The other man must've sensed his confusion. Some things, Thomas remembers and recognizes instantly, but other are still fuzzy, like they were removed from his mind with more intensity. "A cop. . . a head cop. Is he any good?" he asks unsurely.

"The best," Derek says, and for the first time, there's a flicker of something like happiness or hope on the man's face. Thomas smiles slightly in return. He can see, in the other man's body language, that something about Thomas expressing happiness sends relief shooting through his system.

Wondering why Stiles Stilinski would have a reason to be so happy about his life felt like poison sliding down Thomas's throat. Once again, he only has to look at Derek to see the answer.


End file.
